Legend Of Zelda Fan Fiction ❯ Who By Fire ❯ Myth ( Chapter 9 )

"Where no hope is left, is left no fear." – John Milton.

Silently, she counts.

One, two, three.

One – she stands before the mirror.

Two – she reaches behind her neck.

Three – she lets the blade fall into her palm, glinting edge out.

Zelda sets her jaw, gazing at her reflection, a doppelganger from another world, unreal. In the mirror she envisions her plan coming to fruition, vanquishing this evil which steals her shadows. She imagines the sunlight on her face, grass beneath her feet, clouds – and not an endless white ceiling – thrown overhead.

She imagines driving the blade into him, his blood the blackest of inks bubbling up from the wound, falling to his knees before her – and how undignified death makes him – then, she is free.

But these are only fantasies.

Zelda tears a strip of her gown away, taking her hair and tying it back. Into this ribbon she secures the knife, its blade hidden against her nape, a frozen kiss of promise. If she were not under these circumstances, Zelda would think that she looks rather pretty, a few strands of hair framing her cheeks, loosened from their ribbon.

"….How will I know who the Hero is?"

She gasps. The voice seems to come from within the mirror itself, however impossible that is. Fearfully, Zelda presses a finger against the glass, finding it to be as solid as ever, and not echoing with phantom-voices she can swear she has heard, once. The face which stares back at her is her own.

". . . You will know."

The words feel like her own, though Zelda has never spoken them.

The reflection inside her mirror is warped. If she looks hard enough, Zelda can almost see him pressing through the glass, stark white face alight with bloodlust. He's everywhere to her now, beneath her eyelids and slithering against her skin, the silence of nightfall outside.

He is in everything. She is not certain how, but the Demon haunts her without being dead, as surely as any ghost.

"Ghosts can be killed again," and she no longer knows whose voice speaks; the reflection, or herself.

She does anything to occupy herself.

Wandering the halls have proven to be a useless endeavor. She has made and re-made her bed, tucking the wrinkles away, fluffing the pillows, though doing so provides no more comfort than if they had been flat. She places the candles on her vanity in different order. She would clean if dust accumulated, yet not a spot appears.

During the night, she counts the stars. During the day, she reads.

Zelda sits at the edge of her bed, bare feet to the floor, book spread in her lap. She has read this passage many times.

The Goddess Din, patron of desire, strength and war, who wrought the earth with fire, favors those of ambition.

The Goddess Nayru, patron of thought, pride and water, who sown the seeds of law with magic, favors those of foresight.

The Goddess Farore, patron of spirit, bravery and nobility, who planted the teeth of dragons to cultivate life, favors those of conviction.

The Goddess Hylia, patron of time, death and birth, who guarded the Golden Power, favors those of mercy.

The daylight through her window creates strips of darkness along the page, reminding her of the shadow a cage makes. Then, another shadow joins it, blurring the words. She looks up and sees -

A bouquet of eyes – no, not eyes – flowers, muted blue, dark veins running through the flesh, and a black center much like a pupil. She swears they dilate when the sunlight shines along them.

They are dropped unceremoniously into her lap.

"I thought they might give this room some brightness."

Zelda does not touch the flowers, looking up to Ghirahim standing beside her, the red cloak gone, sun glinting from his jewelry. His skin is paler in the light, the cloak's absence draining of his face any color it has.

She bites the inside of her cheek. "I don't like flowers.

His brow rises. "Nonsense! All human women like flowers. How strange it is, to give them flowers, of all things – they will only wilt. In truth, I only brought these to you because they reminded me of your eyes."

He changes, face taking on that stark bloodlust she imagined in her mirror -

"Though, I doubt yours would look so lovely if I plucked them out of your head."

She tries not to shudder, fails, the bottom falling out of her stomach and somewhere near her toes. The flowers feel heavy in her lap. Zelda looks away to the blank wall, his shadow combining with her own.

"Oh, don't be like that," he says, fingers petting beneath her chin, lighting her with webs of chill. "I meant it as a compliment."

Those fingers jerk her head up, grasped painfully along her jaw, and his words are full of the worst kind of sweetness, each sliding sibilancy. "The least you could say is 'thank you, Lord Ghirahim.' I go out of my way to cheer you up, using this silly human tradition of giving flowers, when I needn't in the first place. Go on, then."

Zelda's lips tremble.

Stop.

The grip he has on her jaw burns as if his very skin is on fire.

Stop.

Her throat dries. "Thank you, Lord Ghirahim."

His hand falls away at last. Ghirahim nods approvingly, running the edge of his tongue along his bottom teeth. "There we are! For that, I'm going to tell you something that will surely put a smile on that lovely face!"

Zelda grasps both hands to keep herself from jumping up. "Link?"

"Mmm-hmm. How clever you are, sweet. You'll be happy to know that I left him alive – this time – and how entertaining he was! He has improved marginally. Who knows, he may even gain enough skill to scratch me one day."

Zelda keeps her hopes reigned, flooding her mind of the image of Link – I have to concentrate – breathing in.

"You can't keep me here forever. He'll find where I am. It may not be soon, but he will," she smirks now, "he's more resourceful than you give him credit for."

Ghirahim curls his upper lip. "Hmph. His resourcefulness has no meaning if he dies while trying to find you. He will have to vanquish me first, and I am afraid, my dearest little Hylia, that such a task is impossible for him."

He bends to retrieve a flower, and with all the grace of any sweetheart, tucks it behind her ear. Zelda remains still, daring not even to breathe and -

"Be careful in trust. You never know when someone may just pluck your eyes out for it. Trust blinds you, Skychild. It spills over those pretty blue eyes of yours."

He does not touch her or breathe into her ear or even smile. He rises, and leaves her bedroom, door shutting behind him.

Only after he leaves does Zelda remember the knife, pressed to her nape, a cold promise she has broken.

"Hold out your sword, Master Link."

Link is blinded by the fire that burns across her; it speaks of magic and ruin, transforming her into a brilliant glow of emerald. He raises the sword with a quivering arm, heart leaping as Fi flies toward him, into the blade itself, afire with the same light that had been on her.

The magic surges into and through him, a magic so powerful he can feel it pouring into each follicle of his hair. Before his eyes, the blade morphs, growing in length, the guard flaring out like twin wings. Link gives it an experimental swing, before sheathing it once again.

Koloktos has been destroyed. Link can still feel the sting of its saber across his back where the monster had slashed, the blood caking his tunic. He remembers dodging, leaping, rolling and twisting away from its six arms, each coming closer to killing him. If Link had to compare the metal colossus to one thing, it would be a whirlwind, only this whirlwind had wielded blades and not air.

"Zelda no longer thinks you can save her, Heerrrooo –"

Link flings the thoughts away, gritting his teeth.

No, he will not allow himself to think of it, the possibility that that lie may be true –

If it is? Does it mean so much?

Link lingers on his own thoughts, breathing in the darkness around him.

Trust means everything.

Fi's voice echoes as she speaks to him from the blade.

"Master, Farore's flame has purified the blade, and thus, myself. You will now be able to do more damage to your enemies, and I can now communicate with you from within the sword."

Link blinks. The sensation of her voice vibrating across his skull is a strange, but not unpleasant one. "I'll keep it in mind, Fi."

The vibration grows softer. "Yes, Master Link. Do you require anything of me?"

Link stares at where the flame had once been, its heat lingering over the walls even now. Without it, the room he stands in is nearly the blackness of pitch. It muffles his words.

"Did it hurt, Fi? The fire, I mean. Can you even feel pain?"

He brushes his fingers against the blade's hilt, foolish, though, what meaning would that have to a blade? And lowers his hand.

"No, Master. I am unable to feel pain. I lack the ability to feel any sensation at all. You need not worry yourself."

Her words hurt him. He doesn't know why, only they do, they strike him with a sudden burst, straight in his chest.

"I'm sorry."

Why apologize?

He begins to trek back through the darkness, when her voice rings in his head again, lulling as it has ever been.

"It is best this way, Master. I am only a sword. I advise that you think of me as a tool, for that is what I am."

The pain, again. Link nods against it. He straightens, setting his jaw. "Of course. That's all I needed, Fi."

Fi is silent through the rest of the trek back.

She's tumbling down, down a hill of grass which slips between her toes -

She's running so quickly her hair flies behind her, a thick yellow streak, the grass slipping between her toes -

She's free. She's freefreefree, of all the darkness and featureless walls like nothing, free of the stale bitter air, and most of all, she's free of him –

Stop.

Zelda opens her eyes. Her vision slowly comes to focus, first blue edges with no shape, before the blue solidifies into the flowers, which she has left upon her bed. Already their petals have begun to shrivel, curling in on themselves like edges of burnt paper.

"They're anemones," she remembers because she had been taught about flora at the Knight Academy, when all she ever wanted to learn was about swords. They have some strange meaning, she knows, though the tale is beyond recollection.

He will be here at any moment, just like every night, so she can play obedient and eat, though she has no appetite. He'll be here at any moment, just like every night, to stain her dreams with nightmares.

She hopes it will be the last.

"Surely I must not repeat myself. I said, 'I'm waiting!'"

Zelda startles, knocking the vanity chair to one side. This voice was not imagined. She opens the heavy doors, beyond which Ghirahim stands beneath a beam of moonlight, arms crossed. The cloak remains gone, baring his shoulders and arms. She has never noticed how much taller he is until she joins his side; she would not be able to reach his neck even if she stood on tip-toe.

They begin to walk down the hall, lit only by the moon.

He makes no move toward her, not even looking down to her as he speaks. "I see you have removed the flower from your hair. How rude. I could have snapped your neck, but instead I had the graciousness to give you a flower, and you don't even keep it."

Zelda says nothing. She watches their joined shadows move across the wall.

The noise of dissatisfaction he makes echoes. "Not talking tonight? I expected you to say something. Where has that annoyingly sharp tongue gone to tonight, I wonder." He chuckles. "I wonder indeed."

Zelda imagines the moonlight as the warmth of sun, the white walls as clouds. Her heart hammers, pushing adrenaline into her veins, flushing her cheeks. One part of her says run, and the other says fight.

I can do this.

She imagines the man by her side is Link, who talks pleasantly and smiles without fangs, who does not carry a threat in every sweet word. She imagines sleeping in her own bed, waking to the blue sky.

I can do this.

She's tumbling down, down a hill of grass which slips between her toes –

-and into Link's embrace, his tunic stained with the black blood of a demon, alive and well –

I can do this.

Zelda stops walking, gazing at their joined shadows on the wall, his so much larger than her own.

"The flowers are anemones."

The shadow-Ghirahim tilts his head. "What?"

One.

Zelda trembles. "The flowers you gave me are anemones. Do you know the meaning of them?"

His voice grows rough with irritation. "I was not aware they had one."

She fights the blood rushing into her ears, thickening her tongue.

Two.

"Yes. Everything has meaning. Anemone was the name of a beautiful fairy who fell in love with the God of Wind. The God's lover grew jealous of Anemone, and banished her. The God of Wind begged Nayru, the Goddess of Wisdom, to instead transform Anemone into a flower, and Nayru did so."

Ghirahim is silent, then:

"That is absolute nonsense. Your human myths mean nothing to me. You –"

Three.

Zelda whirls, a circle of blue and gold, blade glaring moonlight from her hand, as she plunges it into his chest as far as it will go –

Blood the color of night bubbles from the wound, wetting his entire front, and his hands rise to his chest –

She stumbles back against the wall, his form blurred by silver moonlight, shadow falling across her face, pale with hope –

Ghirahim does not fall or tremble or gasp in pain.

He smiles -

-and she can't breathe, the walls choking inward -

He smiles, tearing the blade from his flesh, a raw gritty noise, turning its edge upon her -

Zelda screams and -

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